


rain

by pyrrhlc



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Café Musain, Fluff, Multi, POV Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhlc/pseuds/pyrrhlc
Summary: “Working late?”Combeferre hummed in reluctant confirmation. “Not for long,” he said, which was probably a lie, knowing Combeferre. “The others’ll be here soon.” A quick glance towards the back of the café. “I’m pretty sure Feuilly fell asleep in the meeting room.”When it rains, Enjolras thinks, it pours.





	rain

It was raining again – spitting, really – by the time Enjolras hopped off the metro and began to make his way down to the Café. He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the rumble of thunder overhead as he made his way along the darkening pavement, evening traffic breathing fiercely down the necks of city streets. Headlights blazed in the dimness, lamplight cutting through the drizzle. Enjolras hated autumnal nights. Too much darkness, too quickly. Never mind the blazing leaf fall and the beginnings of another academic year – somehow, darkness seemed to rankle him much the way all of life’s little insincerities did; small, at first, but growing larger, until it was all he could do to carry on with what he must. Typical weather. No wonder he was feeling gloomy.

He turned a corner, the lights around him dimming as the sound of the traffic faded slowly into the distance, a gentle whine of cars and trucks and fragile bicycles, already made heavy by the falling shower. Enjolras turned abruptly into the sweeping boulevard of the Place Saint-Michel, uncomfortable now, the collar of his sweatshirt misted by the steadily-increasing downpour. The Café Musain glowed bright at the end of the street, a dry, warm safe haven, the only store front still open at this time of night in the cold. The local greengrocers that Combeferre was so very fond of was shut tight, leaden windows firmly shuttered against the puddled streets, and Enjolras could hardly blame it; there was a blueness to the air tonight, a kind of coldness that seemed to permeate every crack, every joint in the woodwork of the Place du Saint-Michel. He shuddered and pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his hands – a pointless gesture. This night was full of them.

The Café looked well for its recent refurbishment, Enjolras thought absently as he approached it, forgetting the rain for a moment so as to examine the newly-painted exterior. Feuilly had insisted on blue – a pale, eggshell kind of blue, perfectly in-keeping with the local surroundings somehow, as if the Café were a relic from a much older time, and this was but a return to something forgotten – and the walls hung dark and quiet in the rain, suspended in their own little bubble, the wide glass windows shining bright, lit from within, the details of the interior blurred by raindrops on glass. A wooden sign – Grantaire’s handiwork, of course – jutted out from the top beam above the door, clacking gently on its strings in the rising wind alongside its floral companions – hanging plants, the trailing stems of an aptly loved _ceropegia woodii_ , Jehan’s carefully-tended Sweet Alyssum. The outside tables were still seated on the terrace, speckled by the raindrops that fell through the gaps in the overhead awning. Typical. Feuilly’s silver pushbike was propped up amongst a small sea of terracotta plant pots. It looked lonely without its owner.

Enjolras lifted a hand to the café door handle, then stopped, turning back around to face the street, studying the glint of copper light that fell so slowly through the window, the dissident shadows that chased themselves across the very edge of this small world they’d been able to carve out for themselves, bit by bit, piece by piece. The world was bathed in darkness, bathed in blue, and for just a moment there was nothing to hear but the rain falling through the awning into the gutter and the late-evening traffic rumbling away into the distance. How often did he choose to stop, here on these busy nights? They were so wrapped up in themselves that they scarcely noticed the rest of it; the greenness of the leaves just before the foliage turned; the soft clink of china and music that appeared to leak from the pores of the very building itself. There was so much stillness in the rain, he thought; so much he had never noticed, never touched, never acknowledged. His heart did a complicated backflip from inside of his ribs. So much. They had strived for so much, and finally it was theirs. Enjolras smiled quietly to himself in the dimness. Even after everything, this place would always be a home.

Enjolras jumped as a gentle fist knocked itself against the glass of the Musain. On the other side of the pane stood Combeferre, his glasses’ lenses glinting in the faint gloom, a half-worried, half-amused expression bitten into the twist of his lips. He beckoned Enjolras silently with a hand, and Enjolras followed.

It was only after he closed the door behind him that the rain finally faded into the background; a constant thrumming noise, dripping steadily onto the roof, trailing patterns down the windows, but nothing more than that. Enjolras stamped his feet on the rush mat in the entranceway, showering the wooden floor with droplets as he pulled his sweatshirt up over his head and hung it on the cloakstand behind.

Combeferre was still watching him. “Enjoying the rain?” he asked, a faint smile culminating at the corners of his lips. Enjolras smiled back at him in return. Returning back to the Café – back to Combeferre, and to all his friends – felt like returning to a softness he’d never quite known elsewhere – not at university, and certainly not amongst his parents and extended family. _Les Amis_ were all the family he needed.

“Just thinking,” he replied absently, pulling the hair tie out of his hair and tying it again more firmly. Rivulets of damp crowned his forehead. He turned to see a cup of coffee and Combeferre’s battered old laptop sitting on the raised counter by the windowsill. “Working late?”

Combeferre hummed in reluctant confirmation. “Not for long,” he said, which was probably a lie, knowing Combeferre. “The others’ll be here soon.” A quick glance towards the back of the café. “I’m pretty sure Feuilly fell asleep in the meeting room.”

Enjolras smiled. That would explain the bike. “Any more coffee?” he asked.

Combeferre adjusted his glasses, reaching out to close the lid of his laptop. “Of course.” he said. “There’s even biscuits.”

Enjolras sighed, content, pushing himself up onto the raised counter and glancing out again at the rain. The darker months would pass, he thought. But for now, he was content to enjoy the rainfall. There was reason enough to, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. I’ve finally reached peak British by writing a fic about rain.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave kudos or a comment. :)


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